Once a thousand songs
filled the night
but chill has caused
a silencing.
Still, a dozen
or so remain...
chirping...
rasping...
with quickly urgent fervor.
LaLuna is absent too --
harvested by a scythe of clouds
scudding Autumn's bounty
to the cold storerooms of Winter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem